


Taking Care

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: The stress of Theresa's 2012/13 health issues leads to a fight with Philip. Officially the worst summary ever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When Theresa was first diagnosed with diabetes in 2012, she was initially diagnosed with Type II, and it took months for her to get an accurate diagnosis of Type I. It meant she went a long time without the insulin she needed, and she just got sicker and sicker and wasn't sure why. Her immune system also would have been a mess and unable to fight off any viruses. If you look at pictures from the first half of 2013, she looks truly awful, but of course she kept doing her usual thing.
> 
> Which was the inspiration behind this ficlet.

There was a slight redness to Theresa’s eyes tonight, and the dark circles he had become accustomed to beneath them seemed even blacker than usual. Philip had caught her leaving her eyes closed for a second longer than necessary when she blinked as they ate dinner. It couldn’t have been clearer that she was longing for bed, but he knew very well that she would not mention this.

Theresa had looked increasingly frail for months now, her cheeks hollowing and her frame shrinking in on itself as her body failed to hold onto its weight. He was conscious that he could feel every one of her bones when he embraced her, and he was equally conscious of a new weakness he could sense in her own arms when she held onto him. It frightened him far more than her initial diagnosis had, for he could not help but imagine that she was simply fading away.

This evening eyes were especially dull, her complexion especially ashen. He reflected as he caressed her with his gaze that he was also well used to the nights when she looked worse: he’d lost track of the number of times she’d fallen ill in the last four months. And the gravel in her voice told him that she was getting sick again.

Philip wanted to fix this. He _ached_ to fix it. To be able to give her the right pill, get her the right amount of rest, feed her the right foods, to somehow make her better. Yet nothing ever seemed to help; in fact, she only seemed to get sicker as the months went by. As much as the doctors insisted that her body would adjust, Philip could not help but feel that something was very, very wrong here, and he was nearly sick himself with worry over her.

“Darling?” he said softly, prompting Theresa to look up from the chicken. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” He would have gotten her anything from cold medicine to the moon itself, if she’d asked for it.

She shook her head. “I’m okay.” But her voice betrayed her.

Philip bit his tongue. He desperately wanted to push some sort of medication on her, but he knew she would not take it well. He’d likely already pushed his luck by asking for the second time if he could get her anything.

At least this meant she would stay home and have an early night of it. They’d had plans to attend a donor event, and he’d been skeptical when these plans had been made, thinking that Theresa was really not up for any sort of evening event after a full day at work anymore. But now that she was clearly coming down with something, it would be obvious even to her that this wasn’t a good idea. In fact, they’d just talked last weekend about how she would do well to rest more, especially when she wasn’t feeling well, and she’d agreed.

Philip was not so naïve as to think that a bit more sleep would return Theresa to full health, but he knew it did help her fight the bugs she so often caught. He’d make sure she was in bed early tonight, now that they wouldn’t be going anywhere. An evening of pampering would be good for her, he thought: maybe a hot bath with her favorite bath salts, a backrub, some cuddles on the couch while they watched one of her shows…none of it would cure a cold, but he suspected it might make her feel better.

\---

“I’ll do the dishes,” Philip said as they finished, and Theresa moved to stand, intending to help him carry things back to the kitchen. “No, sit down—I can clear the table, too.”

“Thank you,” she said with a quick glance at her watch. “I need a few minutes to get dressed.” Her car would be here twenty minutes from now, which would give her plenty of time to change into a slightly more formal outfit, brush her hair, and add enough make up so that she no longer looked an inch from death. She _hated_ how she’d come to look in recent months: she never felt like eating and often couldn’t keep much down, and she knew she’d lost far more weight than was attractive. And tonight was even worse—she could tell she was getting a cold, which was doing nothing for her appearance.

“Dressed?” Philip paused, the bowl of potatoes in his hands and a confused look on his face.

“Well, for the fundraising event.” Had he forgotten they had to be somewhere tonight?

“You’re…going?”

“We’re both going,” she said, slightly impatient at his confusion. “It’s been on the calendar for weeks.”

“Yes, I know that,” he said with an air of nonchalance that she suspected was not entirely authentic. He left her in the dining room to carry the bowl and his plate to the kitchen. “But…we talked last weekend about how you should slow down,” he went on, his voice raised slightly so that she would hear from a room away.

So _that’s_ what this was about. He didn’t think she _should_ go. Well, she was going.

“We talked about how it would be good if I rested more, especially if I wasn’t feeling well,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “I never said I’d quit attending events as Home Secretary.”

“But this–this is exactly the sort of thing I was referring to!” Philip sputtered as he returned for more dishes. “You’re not feeling well, so you need to stay home.”

The word “need”—as though she were a child he was giving instructions to—grated her nerves. “I’m feeling perfectly fine,” she retorted, keeping her voice even and cool. It was, of course, a lie—she didn’t feel well at all—but that was beside the point. It wasn’t his job to tell her how she felt or what she should do about it. “I don’t _need_ to do anything.”

He was back in the kitchen now, but she heard his sigh very clearly. “Theresa…”

“What?” She tried not to snap.

“I think we both know you don’t feel well. I can tell by looking at your eyes…”

She stood to join him in the kitchen, irritated at calling back and forth. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.“ How dare he use her appearance against her?

“And your voice,” he went on as he rinsed his plate. “Your voice doesn’t sound right either. You’re coming down with something.”

Well aware of how ridiculous it would be to argue the point with a voice that she knew was not at its best, she changed tack. “Then it makes no difference whether we go or not. If I’ve already got it, I’ve already got it.”

“It does make a difference, Theresa.” His own voice was calm and gentle, and somehow that just annoyed her more. She didn’t want him taking care of her tonight. She wanted to go do her job. “You’ll make yourself worse if you keep going; you know how these things hang on you now. You need to stay home and go to bed early.”

“What I _need_ is to do my job!” she snapped.

“You _do_ do your job! You do your job so well you make yourself ill. And this isn’t important—”

Important? Yes, it was important. Why else did he think she was going out when she clearly didn’t feel well?

“Excuse me,” she said icily, “but I’ll decide what’s important for the Home Secretary.”

There was a moment’s silence, and she knew she’d angered him, but she didn’t care.

Philip turned the sink off, a signal that this was now a serious discussion. “I just think you need to take better care of yourself. I’m tired of watching you make yourself sick.” His voice was quiet—exhausted, even—and that also made her angrier. Did he not think _she_ was tired? Did he think she was doing this on purpose? Did he think she had some control over her symptoms? Did he think any of this was her _choice_?

And did he think she couldn’t figure out how to take care of herself?

“I am not making myself sick! Do you want to know what I’m tired of? I’m tired of being nagged like a little girl who doesn’t have the sense to button her coat when it’s cold.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure you _do_ have much sense!"

“I am _working_ , Philip, and I have _important_ work to—"

“And you also,” he said firmly, talking over her, “have a serious health condition. You’re in denial about that because you like to fancy yourself invincible, but that’s the truth.”

He _knew_ how she felt about being treated as sickly. “I don't have a _condition_ , Philip,” she said, practically spitting the word. “I am _not_ an invalid, and I will _not_ be treated as one.”

“Yes, God forbid we ever admit there's anything wrong with you. We'll just carry you in and out of the House on a stretcher if necessary.”

“When have I _ever_ needed to be carried anywhere on a stretcher?” she exclaimed hotly.

“Well, I think it was usually me that ended up carrying you.”

He hadn’t carried her anywhere in years—certainly not in the last few months—so she knew exactly what he was referring to. Philip had carried her upstairs to bed so many times when she’d been young and suffering debilitating cramps, a sign of the syndrome that had robbed her of her fertility. The comment was a reference to something deeply personal, to memories that had always been bittersweet reminders of how much Philip loved her, and she drew in her breath at the cruelty.

“You're blowing this out of proportion,” she said, a calm in her voice that she did not feel. “I'm only trying to do my job. A job I've wanted to do for a very long time. I thought you understood that.”

Because that part hurt more than anything: surely it was obvious how badly she wanted to work, and how painful it was to have her health interfering.

But Philip did not seem to be finished. “You only push yourself this hard because of your own insecurity,” he snapped.

“Insecure?” Theresa laughed humorlessly, wanting to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. “ _Really._ You would call _me_ insecure when _you're_ the one put out by the fact that I'm prioritizing state business over your _incessant_ need to be needed.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Now, I’m going to get dressed so I can do my job.”

“Fine,” she heard Philip say as she whirled around and stalked out of the kitchen. “Make yourself sicker if you like. But I’m not going to go with you and help you do that!”

“I’d prefer,” she called back, “if you didn’t.”

\---

She had barely made it to their bedroom—shutting the door behind her with a satisfying click—before the tears she had been holding back spilled over. She and Philip did not snap at each other, they did not raise their voices, they were not sarcastic…and yet all of these things had just happened. She had been thoroughly dressed down and completely chewed out by the husband who was otherwise an ever-present source of support and comfort.

Theresa had never been good at this sort of thing. She’d been a child who would cry at the slightest reprimand, a girl who couldn’t bear to be yelled at, and eventually a woman who _hated_ raised voices. Political debate and the verbal sparring of the House was one thing—she thrived on that. But in her personal life? A discussion like the one she’d just had with anyone would have been upsetting, but with the added sting that it had come from Philip… She needed to be getting dressed, but she moved instead toward the bed and perched on the end, trying to get her tears under control.

Was this how Philip saw her now? Sick, delicate, needing of constant care and attention, unable to handle a simple evening out? Had he lost sight of anything else about her in light of the last few months? Did he think of her now as his sickly, invalid wife? She hated the thought of anyone seeing her as weak or sickly, but especially Philip.

Did he also see her as a terribly incompetent Home Secretary? Did he think her too sickly to do her job? He hadn’t said it directly, of course, but the man who’d supported every bit of her career had just told her she ought to skip work functions for the sake of a scratchy throat.

Worse, was he tired of all this? Was he sick of the doctor’s visits, of her constant exhaustion, of the complaints that she tried to keep to a minimum? Of what her health had done to her appearance? She could hardly blame him for growing tired of constantly planning around her health and her energy levels…when all he got in exchange was the opportunity to make love to a skeleton.

She often wondered if she’d never get better, if this was her _life_ from now on out. And what would that mean for her marriage?

It was the worst and most frightening thought she’d had all evening, and it only made her cry harder.

But _no_. She needed to get ready; she had work to do. She forced herself to swallow a few times, gulping down her tears, and then headed for the bathroom to fix her face.


	2. Chapter 2

The awful truth, of course, was that Philip had been right. She was sick, and she’d had no business going out tonight. She’d come home feeling significantly worse—feverish, almost, she suspected, and with a cough that would not be suppressed. Her head was full and pounding, her throat had gone from scratchy to raw, and she was so tired she was not sure she had the energy to get ready for bed. This was not all the result of the event, as she’d known she was sick before she left, but she knew she’d done herself no favors by going out, and she doubted she’d feel anywhere near this ill if she’d stayed home with Philip.

Not that Philip needed to know any of this. She’d needed to be there tonight, and the government didn’t need a sickly Home Secretary. The last thing she wanted was for Philip to have further ammunition next time they had this argument, and she knew deep down that there would be a next time. And a next after that. Some days she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel healthy again.

There was also a part of her that, quite simply, _hated_ to admit she was wrong. Purely on principle, she did not want Philip to know that _she_ had been wrong, and _he_ had been right. Especially not when he’d made such an arse of himself in the process: she was still stinging from the things he’d said and the tone he’d used. She was hurt and she was angry, and it was intolerable to think that, underneath it all, he’d been correct in his premise if not in his delivery.

And so Theresa was hoping not to see him as she let herself back in to their flat. He would, hopefully, be on the couch, and she could slip past the front room, into the master bathroom to get undressed, and off into a guest room for bed without having him so much as glance at her.

But Philip was not in the front room, and she was at first relieved not even to see the back of him. Yet she found him soon enough: he was sitting up in bed with a book when she stepped into their bedroom.

He didn’t speak, or look at her, and she in turn ignored him. She felt his eyes on her as she took a pair of pajamas from a drawer, but when she snuck a glance back at him, he seemed thoroughly absorbed in his reading.

Theresa felt her throat constrict as she pushed the drawer shut. _Not now…_ She tried to swallow, but a harsh, rattling, deep cough forced its way out anyway, to be followed by a second and a third and a fourth, her shoulders trembling as she tried to draw breath around them.

“Are you all right?” she heard Philip ask, his voice quiet and calm and even.

_“Yes,”_ she snapped when she had caught her breath, stepping into her bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind her with a satisfying click.

\---

Theresa lingered a bit in the shower—the hot water pouring over her muscles and the steam clearing her head slightly meant that it was the best she’d felt all day. Eventually, though, she dragged herself out, dressed, and brushed her teeth, quickly feeling miserable again as the effects of the shower wore off. The thought of sleeping in their bed was terribly tempting: she wouldn’t have to speak to Philip and could lay with her back to him, and that mattress was so very, very comfortable. Plus, she’d have the added benefit of her husband’s warmth. The empty bed she was heading to would surely be freezing.

She opened the bathroom door, toying with the idea of slipping in next to him.

Philip’s eyes raised slightly from his book—only slightly, but enough for her to know that he was studying her appraisingly, searching for signs of illness, trying to determine how exactly she was feeling.

The observation infuriated her, and she felt her spine stiffen. No, she would not be sleeping next to this man.

Theresa stalked over to her side of the bed, snatched up her pillow, and left.

She realized once she was settled into their extra bed that she was even sicker than she’d thought—now that she was lying down (as she’d longed to do for hours), with nothing more to occupy her, there was nothing left to distract her from how she felt.

And she felt awful. Even with the extra pillow she’d brought, being horizontal meant she could barely breathe, it made her cough worse, and she felt as though a pile of bricks were sitting on the bridge of her nose. The rest of her body hurt, too: her calves stung as though she’d been hiking all day, and there was a dull ache in her back that made her groan slightly as she rolled over, searching for a more comfortable position.

She was freezing, too. Absolutely _freezing_ , so that she was shivering in spite of the covers. She was always cold lately, but this was so much worse. _So_ much worse. The bed and its sheets had been cold when she got in, but she also knew it wasn’t only that: she felt chilled deep in her veins, and she doubted the extra blanket she was thinking of fetching would do much good. She suspected she had a fever, but there was nothing to be done for it now other than sleep. She curled into a tighter ball, trying to get warm. Her feet felt as though she’d been soaking them in ice water.

And all the while, Theresa tried not to think of how comfortable and cozy she usually was snuggled next to Philip.

If only she could sleep…but that was hopeless with this cough. Every time she got slightly comfortable, she’d be forced to scramble up again, gasping for air.

She needed to take something for this. Theresa had been halfheartedly avoiding over-the-counter drugs lately—she seemed to need something so very often that it couldn’t possibly be healthy—but it was abundantly clear that she was not going to sleep if she was choking every few minutes. Sighing, she pushed the covers off—oh, how much colder the air seemed now!—and padded down the hall. Their bedroom light was off, so Philip must have put his book away, and she slipped past their half-open door and into the kitchen.

Surely there was something for a cough in this medicine cabinet, she thought as she searched through the contents. She could not remember the last time she had taken any, but wasn’t cough syrup something they ought to have? Yet, as she removed bottle after bottle of her prescriptions and simple over the counter medicines and general vitamins, it did not seem to be.

Where _was_ it? There were so many bottles in here, and most of what she’d been prescribed on various occasions hadn’t worked anyway. The truth of the matter was that she’d been getting sicker the last few months, not staying the same and certainly not improving. She hated her inability to pull it together, hated the way her body was betraying her.

And _WHERE_ was the cough medicine? Perhaps she should just go back to bed without it. She’d surely fall asleep eventually, and she just wanted to lie down again.

“Are you looking for something?” she heard Philip’s voice say softly behind her, and she looked back to see him standing in the doorway.

There seemed to be little point in not answering him, but before she could, another fit of coughing overtook her.

“Something,” she wheezed after she caught her breath, “for my cough. But I’m not sure we’ve got anything.”

“It wouldn’t be in there,” he said. “I rearranged things to make space for all the prescriptions you’ve had. Liquids all moved to another cabinet.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

He moved toward her, but he did not reach for a cabinet. Instead, he raised his hand to her forehead.

“You’ve got a fever,” he said, checking her cheek as well with the back of his hand, then moving his palm back to her forehead.

Much to her horror, she felt tears spring to her eyes and begin to spill over. She was tired, she felt awful, she was still upset about the fight they’d had, and she was frustrated with everything from her overall health to the missing medicine. She did not have the emotional reserves to be stoic as Philip tried to take care of her.

“Darling!” She detected an edge of panic in Philip’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

_I’m tired,_ she wanted to say. _I’m sick. I can’t find the cough syrup._

“I don’t know,” she said, losing the battle against her tears.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Philip pulled her into a bear hug, his arms wrapping around her, cocooning her against his chest. “You’re going to be all right.”

In spite of how upset she was with him, it still felt incredibly good to be in Philip’s arms, and she hiccupped, trying to prevent a sob. The hands rubbing up and down her back were so soothing, and his shoulder was such a comfortable place for her head, and…

“You’re so _warm_ ,” she hiccupped again.

“And you’re shivering.” He kissed her cheek. “I think you should go and get in our bed, and get warm under the covers, and I can bring you some medicine.”

“Should–shouldn’t we talk?” she whispered, the fight still pressing on her.

“Not until you are warm and comfortable.”

\---

Theresa could not suppress a soft sigh as she settled herself back in bed after retrieving her pillow from the guest room. Philip wasn’t back yet, but he’d left the bed so wonderfully warm: he had always seemed to her to radiate heat, and she shivered again as she pulled the covers around her. This would be…well, _not_ perfect once he was here with her; she was still too rattled by their words of hours ago.

She still didn’t think she’d sleep, even if she were physically more comfortable. Not when she could still hear their fight echoing in her head.

“Here we are,” Philip said, entering the room with an armful. “I’ve got the cough syrup”—he set the bottle down on his nightstand—“and the heating pad, because I thought that might make you feel a bit better.” She watched him unwind the cord, plug it in, and switch it on, her eyes stinging again. That would feel heavenly against her back, and she had not even complained about that to him. This was classic Philip—always knowing exactly what she needed, always taking better care of her than she did of herself, and her other feelings didn’t make her any less touched. In fact, she thought they made her _more_ teary at his nursing than usual.

“But first, let’s take your temperature.” He sat down on the bed, the thermometer the only thing left in his hand. “I want to see how high this fever is.” The worry in his eyes reminded her of how very sick she’d gotten in the autumn, and she knew he was thinking of that as well.

“It’s not very high, I don’t think,” she tried to argue, but he shook his head.

“It probably isn’t, but I don’t like to leave things to chance. Not after…not after November. Open up.”

She obeyed and closed her mouth around the little glass stick, her eyes drifting shut as well when Philip laid his hand across her forehead again. “You’re warmer than I would like,” he said softly, his hand moving to stroke her hair.

“All right, let’s see it,” she heard him say a few minutes later, her eyes opening as she felt the thermometer slipping from between her lips. “Thirty-eight point five,” he reported, the relief evident in his voice. “We can let that run its course, and I’ll check it again in the morning. Let’s get you your medicine…” Philip reached for the bottle and measured a small amount into the plastic cup that had been overturned on the lid, and she raised herself up on her elbow to swallow it.

“Now,” he said, reaching for the heating pad that was lying on the bed next to him, “would you like this against your back?”

She nodded, murmuring softly as he settled it against her. She was immediately warmer, and she closed her eyes as she felt the heat seeping into her muscles.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asked, and she shook her head. Not unless he could turn back the clock and erase their argument. Theresa saw the room dim from behind her closed eyelids as Philip turned the lights out, and then the mattress shifted as he climbed in next to her.

It was odd to lie stiffly next to her husband, not touching him, not going near him. Especially when she was still cool, especially when she didn’t feel well, especially when she wanted him so very badly. Every inch of her longed to be closer—regardless of the sting in her heart, regardless of the phrases still cycling through her mind—and so she found herself scooting next to him after a few minutes, settling her body against his.

He hesitated for a moment before wrapping his arm around her and pulling her closer still. Her heart clenched at the contact, but her body relaxed. There was nothing in the world as comfortable as Philip’s embrace, and she’d learned decades ago that being in his arms could soothe almost anything.

Anything, that was, except his words tonight.

“I’m sorry I was so harsh with you earlier,” he said suddenly.

She knew that, she realized. She’d known that all evening. Much of the last few minutes had been a silent apology.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I said some very ugly things, because I was angry and I was frustrated, and I’m so sorry, darling. I know I hurt you, and I hate that. Especially when I know you weren’t feeling well.”

She was silent for a moment, chewing on his apology. She believed him, of course she did. She knew he regretted it, she knew there was nothing worse for him than the thought that he’d hurt her. And it wasn’t that she was angry; not anymore, not really. It was just…

“When we were arguing,” she began slowly, “you said…you mentioned…all the times you carried me.”

He was silent for a few moments, and she felt him tense up. “That’s the part I regret the most, Theresa. I shouldn’t…I didn’t mean it and I shouldn’t have said it.

“But what _did_ you…mean by it?” She was struggling to keep her voice light. She wanted an explanation, not an apology.

“I don’t know. I was angry and I knew that would hurt you, which is…awful. I’m so sorry, love.” She could hear how earnest he was in the tone of his voice, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was bringing up something that he’d been upset about for a long time.

“But did you…” She felt tears rushing into her eyes and clogging her throat. “Was it really a burden for you?”

He stiffened. “ _No!_ Darling, absolutely _not_.” He kissed her forehead and brushed her hair back from her face, bringing his hand to rest on the side of her head. “Please don’t ever let yourself think that. I hate when you’re sick, but I’m always glad when I can take care of you and make you feel better.”

She sniffed. “I know.” And she did know that. When she wasn’t tired and sick and fresh from an argument, she knew all that very well.

“I’m so sorry, darling.” Another forehead kiss. “I never should have said that.”

“I wasn’t very nice to you, either.”

“No, you weren’t, but at least you didn’t start it,” he said, the hint of a smile in his voice.

She chuckled through her remaining tears. “I didn’t, that’s true. But I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about you…needing to be needed.”

“Well, I do rather enjoy feeling needed,” Philip admitted, and the reminder of his sweet, self-deprecating nature made her want to hug him.

“I do need you, though,” she said, her voice cracking. “I really _do_.”

It was a moment before he responded, his voice serious again. “I need you, too, darling. I need you very much. That’s why I’m so scared…I was angry because I was scared.”

“Scared?”

“Of losing you.”

“I’m not that sick, Philip.”

“No…not at the moment. But you’ve been very sick, and you haven’t been getting better, and diabetes _can_ be quite serious, and none of this…it doesn’t seem right to me. You shouldn’t be so sick so often, you shouldn’t be so tired all the time, you shouldn’t be… _fading away_ like this. You shouldn’t feel so awful. You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t have that look in your eyes all the time. Your eyes always look like you feel terrible, even when you say you’re all right. I hate seeing the way your eyes look. I hate all of this, and it scares me to death.”

It was not a speech she’d been expecting, and she reached for him this time, pulling him close to her and hugging him as best she could from this position. “I’m all right,” she said softly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But you’re not all right, Theresa. And I do worry.”

She paused. “I know. I know you do. And I know this all seems very serious—”

“It _is_ serious, Theresa.”

“I know all of this is serious,” she amended. “But I’m also going to get better. I promise I’m going to get better.” She did believe that. She _had_ to believe there was light at the end of this tunnel. Eventually, she told herself, her body would adjust.

“Only if you take care of yourself. That’s why I didn’t want you to go tonight. You were sick, and now you’re much sicker.”

She sighed. “I know. And as much as it pains me to say it, you were right, and I ought not to have gone.”

“Please don’t, next time,” he begged.

“I probably won’t, because I’m sure I’ll be staying home tomorrow, so I’m only missing more work this way. I just…” She felt the bridge of her nose burning again. “I just want to not be sick.”

“Oh, darling—”

“And I hate that I’m not normal. I hate this. That’s why I went—I _hate_ not doing my job the way I should. I _hate_ not being well enough.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.” He brushed his lips to her forehead again and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“You’re the most hardworking person I know,” he said after a moment of silent cuddles. “And you have to take care of yourself to keep that up.”

“Or at least let you take care of me,” she said with a soft laugh.

He grinned. “Well, that was understood, darling.” She tried and failed to fight a yawn. “Which is going to start,” he continued, “with insisting you sleep now.”

She nodded, content in his arms, and closed her eyes as he gave her another kiss.


End file.
